


clown porn vocoded to gangsta's paradise

by Bradsucks



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Cock & Ball Torture, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Pet, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sex Toys, mentioned daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bradsucks/pseuds/Bradsucks
Summary: Throw that boi pussy
Relationships: Patryck/Paul (Eddsworld)
Kudos: 19





	clown porn vocoded to gangsta's paradise

**Author's Note:**

> It's ya boi 3D back to reclaim my alt account.

They have a ritual for getting into The Zone™ (as Paul calls it), into character (goes Pat). Patryck says that when he was in drama club, one of the first things he tried to suss out was how his character would ready themselves, so he could walk into their mannerisms, putting them on piece by piece. This is how he readies himself now: cooly, silently dressing in his Red Army attire, his fingerless gloves, his red sweater, his black pants, and combat boots. It’s simple, and would have absolutely zero intimidation factor if Paul could not still see the streaks of blood stained into the fabric, darker red-brown trying to hide amongst the carmine polyester and wool. Patryck brushes his hair, ties it out of his eyes, and pours himself a small glass of whiskey. 

And Paul is there to watch him do all this, naked and strapped into the humbler, his balls pulled back behind his knees. As he dresses, Patryck uses him as a table, making sure the cold glass of the bottle rests on the base of Paul’s spine. When he’s poured his drink, he sets both glass and bottle down on the actual nightstand, before leaning forward to rub the ring of condensation into Paul’s skin, watching it prickle up at his icy touch. 

“How are you feeling, puppy?” Patryck asks as his hands roam down, over the white lash-like stretch marks along Paul’s hips and his buttocks, so rarely without fading bruises now. 

Paul’s breath hitches as Patryck’s knuckles brush along the seam of his ballsack, the thick underside vein of his half-hard cock. 

“Pretty good, Sir,” Paul replies, careful not to move too much. 

“Did you clean yourself like I asked?” 

“Yes, Sir.”

A drawer opens, shuts. Paul braces himself for the cold lubricant about to be slathered along his entrance, but instead feels the firm wetness of Patryck’s tongue, gently kitten-licking along the ring of muscle. Paul gasps, more so in surprise than in arousal, though that doesn’t stop his cock from twitching as Patryck slips his tongue inside of him, opening him up with slow, lavish undulations, his free hand cupping Paul’s testicles. 

Paul feels that familiar knot tying inside his stomach, the sensations marching up his spine, but, far too soon, it’s over. He hears the sound of a popping cap before a glass plug is inserted into him, meeting no resistance sans the light sting of the stretch. 

“There we go,” Patryck says to no one in particular. Paul mewls, hoping for sympathy. 

“Don’t be like that, puppy,” Patryck quips back with a firm smack on Paul’s thigh. “I gave you your birthday present early. Now what do you say?”

“That you should have saved it for my birthday.” Patryck had given him anilingus for his last birthday, had folded Paul over the bed and eaten him out until Paul came ropes all over the bed’s wooden frame. (They weren’t living together then, and so Paul had gone home the next day just to immediately masturbate to the memories, how every touch lingered on his skin like ghosts).

“I’m saving something  _ special _ for your birthday.”

Paul almost asks, _ Is it the clown suit?  _ But he buries it down in giggles the best he can. 

“What’s so funny?” Patryck asks. 

“Nothing.” 

Patryck sighs rather dramatically, before standing up and plopping himself down into Paul’s big leather chair. “Come here, pup,” he says as he unbuckles his belt, a smirk toying the edge of his lips as Paul has to carefully spin himself on his knees and maneuver towards the chair, less the humbler yank his balls down anymore. “Do you want a towel?” Patryck asks, and Paul nods, so Patryck grabs the orange, folded towel off the chair’s arm and lays it down in front of his feet, a cushion for Paul’s knees. Paul crawls forward, grunting in pain as he lifts himself up to settle between Patryck’s spread legs—a cock betwixt them, pink with blood. 

“Since you aren’t going to tell me, I suppose you don’t need use of your mouth, then.” 

“You wouldn’t like it if I did tell you.”

Patryck raises a brow, taking his glass in his hand. “Doesn’t matter whether or not I like it,” he says, before taking a sip, and with the way his eye remains open, golden and burning, Paul knows Pat’s trying to remind him of their ….. conversation last month, how Patryck had drunk the truth serum meant to go down Paul’s throat. 

Paul is still somewhat shocked Patryck even agrees to fuck him after all that, much less like this. (Not that continuing their arrangement hadn’t taken considerable begging from Paul, the real, pathetic kind of begging, not the sexy kind at all). 

So Paul says, “I was gonna ask if my birthday surprise is gonna be the clown suit.”

Patryck’s face falls and Paul’s laughter is silenced as Patryck shoves his head forward, burying Paul’s nose in his crotch. “ _ Definitely _ not in need of your mouth.”

Paul manages another chuckle as he opens his mouth, letting his tongue loll out against the side of Patryck’s cock, still small enough (wilted, most likely, from the clown comment) to swirl into his mouth without issue. He thrums, knuckles tightening on Patryck’s pants legs. Patryck looses a sigh, rubbing a gentle hand through Paul’s hair. 

Behind Paul, the TV turns on—some old black-and-white art film in French, definitely not for mutual consumption. Paul swirls his tongue around Patryck’s cock, suckling its growing mass, and beginning to gently bob his head once it’s grown large enough to fill up his throat. 

_ “Good  _ puppy,” Patryck says, voice airy and lustful, hand still in Paul’s hair. “Good boy.” 

Paul already feels his mind wander back towards his last birthday: to Patryck’s mouth on him, hot and wet; to Patryck’s salvia and his own pre-cum dripping down his thighs; to Paul choking out,  _ Daddy, _ as he came without anyone touching his cock at all.

His mind wanders farther as he sets a rhythm for himself, by now able to predict Patryck’s sexual responses with the relative certainty of the weather app. As awkward as his stance is, with his butt jutted out to relieve the pressure on his balls, letting his upper body rest against the chair is helpful, and he doesn’t need to dramatically deepthroat Patryck when they’re like this. Paul’s inwards clench around the toy, trying to keep it from slipping, but other than that he drifts, daring to imagine something new:

Patryck riding his face— yes, 69ing, but Patryck so distracted by his own pleasure he can’t help but shove himself back against Paul’s tongue, his appreciation shown through the aggressive pumps of his hand on Paul’s cock. Paul’s own hands would be full of Patryck’s buttocks, keeping himself from being crushed. 

Patryck’s soft, plush thighs boxing his head in, Patryck’s body tight around his tongue, Patryck’s palm growing slick with Paul’s pre-cum as his own dick dripped onto Paul’s ch—

“Puppy, are you still listening?”

_ Fuck no. _

Paul releases Patryck’s dick. “Yes, Sir?”

“I was just saying how wonderful you looked sucking me off. And I asked how you want to be fucked after this.” 

Patryck is still being unusually nice. Sure, his words during sex are not usually too cruel, but his punishments most certainly are, and just as swift. Yet ever since — that,  _ The Thing  _ — Patryck has been softer with him. The Sir before would have belted Paul across his thighs merely for keeping that joke from him. 

He might not have gotten rid of their painplay entirely, but he’s been handling Paul with the kids gloves. 

And it’s driving Paul fucking crazy.

Paul swallows, contemplates what he’s about to say, and revises it to: “The way you used to.”

Patryck’s expression changes, in a way Paul finds hard to name — no, wait,  _ hesitant.  _ Concerned. 

“Come on,  _ please _ .”

“Are you sure, Puppy?” Patryck asks, and for a moment it sounds like he’s pleading with Paul for an out. 

“Yes, Sir.” Paul grabs hold of Patryck’s cock and starts pumping as if to convince him, continuing with: “I love it when you fuck me until I’m shaking, when you treat me like a useless toy.”

Patryck smothers his small gasp of pleasure, helped by the realization that Paul is just feeding his own lines back to him. 

_ Fuck your slut, _ Paul would so often gasp out, his hand, if not bound up, speeding over his own swollen cock.  _ Fuck your toy. _

And then when it was all over he would crawl into bed besides Patryck and whimper that he’d had another nightmare. 

Paul’s hand stills as the expression on Patryck’s face only grows more sour. He’d expected Patryck to be overjoyed to hear him beg the way he used to, so eager to please him, so eager to be used and battered and pumped full of cum.

But that was all fake, wasn't that what Patryvk had more or less said?

“What’s wrong?” Paul asks, drawing his hand away. 

Patryck sighs, leaning forward to gently cup either side of Paul’s face. “I just worry about you.”

Paul thinks back to that moment in the shower, when he had snapped at Patryck just for trying to comfort him. Had made Patryck so angry he’d stormed out of the bathroom and Paul had started forward waiting to cry, only for nothing to come out.

_ I’m such a fucki— _

Paul takes a deep breath, hearing his therapist’s voice cutting the thought off, rationalizing it away, reminding him he can only apologize and move forward. 

That’s a side effect of therapy no one told him about: how his therapist wouldn’t pay rent, and how tiring it could be to have her dissect every thought to pop into his head, even when she was a thousand miles away visiting family. 

Patryck’s fingertips under his chin, stroking up. “If you're serious, ask me again, and I’ll do it for you.”

“We don't—”

“I know we don't,” a thumb over Paul’s lips. “That's why I’m asking you to be sure.”

_ Well, when you put it  _ that _ way…  _

“I had the thought to nut in what’s left of my whiskey and make you drink the leftovers to prove your sincerity,” Patryck adds matter-of-factly. “But only if you'd like. I know you have a particular fondness for the taste of turpentine.”

“Semen and cheap alcohol,” Paul says with a grin; “Back in uni, we just called it a protein shake.” 


End file.
